Clapping his hands together Mike smiled. "Well I'm glad that's settled with." Looking around, he watched everyone slowly leave to do their own duties and get ready for a mission back outside the bunker. Meanwhile, Kevin was speaking to Mila in private, no doubt to talk about the cure that was flowing through her own veins.

Catching up to Sam and AJ, Mike smiled again and said quite happily, "Well seeing as we got nothing else to do, who wants me to teach them how to make a pipebomb?!"

Leaning back in her cushy chair, Lauren brushed a few stray locks of wavy brown dark brown hair out of her face before returning her attention to her notebook once more. The electronica blaring from her headphones began to fade leaving a brief gap of silence before a beat that would drive most people insane took its place. Screeching, thumping, a metallic sound reminiscent of a working factory running at full speed, and even a touch of guitar echoed in her ears. And the sound sparked something, the pen hit paper again and she continued on oblivious to the hell that had broken loose in the world while constructing her own fictional brand of horror.

Cris squeezed her eyes shut as she felt the wind whip at her currently pale face, blonde strands of hair occasionally smacking her eyelids. God, how she hated heights. She had one hand over her other arm, holding onto the tattoo of the Japanese kanji character for protection, interweaved with a cornucopia of other artworks permanently drawn into her skin. Her mother hated every single one of them, had required her to wear makeup all down her arms whenever she went into public. They weren't like sleeve art, covering every inch of her, so she had never seen the problem with them. Not that it mattered anymore. She was dead, along with the majority of Las Vegas. Along with the majority of America, or so it seemed.

She took a deep breath, wondering how everything had gone so wrong. Her first gig that was all her own, a guitar that was the main focal point instead of her face, and the world ends. Jeez, maybe the Gods were trying to tell her something.

"How much further?!" the 19 year old girl shouted, turning her face in the direction of the pilot. He was wearing sunglasses, but she could see sweat dripping down his neck. So, she wasn't the only one terrified.

"I'm um, not sure!" he replied, his voice weak. She questioned idly why her mother had hired such a pussy. He was more scared then she was.

Suddenly, he coughed and the helicopter swerved slightly. A squeal escaped Cris's lips and her nails dug into her skin.

"What the hell?!" she cried, her heart now going a mile a minute. The pilot merely shook his head, the copter beginning to descend. She had no idea how long they had been flying for, but nothing looked familiar. No lights, no people, no anything. There was only a clearing in the distance, which she realized was his destination. It was far, but was it far enough to get away from those things? Was there a way for them to survive there?

The copter finally touched ground, and the pilot pulled the gear off of his head. He was panting, and Cris realized with a start just how awful he looked. Coughing, labored breathing, pale skin and sweating, it was as if he was…

Shit.

Just as that broke through to her, the pilot suddenly pulled a gun from beneath his seat, and the girl screamed yet again.

“Take it and run. Just run until you find someone else,” he managed to get out, then before she could stop him he put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The blood mostly went back into the seat, but she felt some of the warm liquid splash onto her cheek as his hand fell away. Shaking, she took the gun out of his hand and scrambled out of the copter.

She wasn’t running for long. She very soon came to a cabin, with a light still inside. She went over to the window, still holding the gun with reservations, and looked in. A woman was inside, her back turned away from the girl. The cords attached to headphones told her the woman was human, a real person. She ran to the door and began pounding on it furiously, begging the woman would hear.

"Actually it's an interesting story. It was back during the Somalian incident with the captured tourists. After the incident I went down into Africa to detail the story. While down there I sort of befriended some pirates after I convinced them no one would love me enough to pay for any ransom and after giving them money and such but anyway I asked them some questions about why they turned to the life of a pirate and such. Somehow the conversation got steered into overthrowing dictatorships and creating bombs. I exchange for some more money they taught me how to make a proper Molotov and making small explosives like pipebombs. When I got back stateside I took the time to look into our own country's anarchists and revolutions which are quite tiny and mediocre compared to everyone else's. I didn't learn anything very good other than rednecks take their moonshine very seriously...." Mike said, finishing with a nod.

She very soon came to a cabin, with a light still inside. She went over to the window, still holding the gun with reservations, and looked in. A woman was inside, her back turned away from the girl. The cords attached to headphones told her the woman was human, a real person. She ran to the door and began pounding on it furiously, begging the woman would hear.

The figure outside watched idly, its eyes boring through the pane of glass standing between him and his target. A strong gust brushed past rustling his long rugged coat but failing to remove the hood covering his head. His target didn't notice, she was so enthralled in her work that...

Lauren's pen came to a screeching halt. Pounding base still thumped in her ears, the rhythmic noise driving her on... but something was off. The beat seemed out of sync or perhaps it was thunder? But this was the desert, not Seattle. Perhaps she had finally lost her mind. She raised her hand tugging on the white cords until the earbuds fell from her ears and hung across the leg of her ratty old blue jeans and listened. The door?

But who the hell would be banging on the door to what was more or less a shack in the middle of nowhere? The thought wasn't enough to suppress her curiosity as she slid her chair back from her desk and dropped her pen beside her notebook with a grumble before rising to stand on her bare feet. It was probably some lunatic out here trying to get aliens to abduct them or an idiot thinking they could find a gap in the buffer zone and sneak a glimpse at Area 51 or something equally absurd. She stopped as she reached the door, moving to glance out the peep hole, which of course was a requirement for a building intended to be rent out to paranoid schizophrenics. She was honestly expecting some crazed looking bearded man, instead there was a terrified blond girl.

It wasn't until Lauren stepped back and opened the door allowing the light from the house to spill outside that she noticed something else... the girl had a gun. Her feet suddenly felt as if they were cemented to the floor. She couldn't move, her brown eyes just remained glued to the pistol. Her features shifted displaying a mix of fear and mistrust while her heart pounded in her chest. It was times like this when she reverted to the best counter she had for more trying circumstances, sarcasm. "Let me guess, you're running from aliens or men in black suits?"

Last edited by NitWhit on Sat Jul 17, 2010 3:55 am; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : just wanted to quote seinn to make my post a bit clearer)

"It might keep him sane. And you. This virus is half mental," Kevin says cryptically before opening the door and leaving Mila in riddle-land. He hikes up to the armory where a Marine Sergeant has taken the role of Supply Sarge and is handing out weapons and kit. He hands everyone a choice of a British Bushmaster ACR, M4A1 Carbine, M16A4, SCAR-H Rifle, a M249 SAW, M21 Sniper Rifles, M14 EBR rifles, M416 rifles, and XM8 Prototype Rifles. He also hands out nightvision goggles, radio headsets, silencers, and extended magazines along with a sidearm. The sidearms include Glock 18 automatic pistols, M9s, and Sig Sauer P226s. At the talk of pipebombs, the Supply Sarge hands Mike some C4 charges. "Military grade. Not those civilian made explosives," he says with a grin. The Supply Sarge also hands out a few laptops and supplies for food and impromptu camping.

Matt, though sweaty and shaken, loads up on a silenced M416 with a grenade launcher, a silenced XM8, and a silenced Sig Sauer P226. "Keep in mind we won't want to draw in any more of Will than necessary," Matt says, referring to the Wreakers. "So use the silencers." His speech is shaky and uncertain, as if he wants to be confident but can't. The rest of his men and Delta Force load up silently though the Marines are full of bravado. "Alright, since Gibson isn't feeling too well, you all will refer to me. I'm Lieutenant Cody Marshall. I'll be the field commander," the Delta Force Lieutenant says. "I want professionalism in this. Remember, any of you could be turning into a Wreaker tomorrow. So this is a personal mission. We can even find a cure to save the world that is now hell." He glares pointedly at the Jarheads, who clam up relatively quick.

After they are done Agent Donovan patches into the line. "This is Base Command. I'll be directing from here." "Copy Donovan. Base Command will respond to Eagle. Ground force will be referred to as Saber. We will take the trucks. Our first objective is to secure some military hardware at an airfield and equipment base two miles away. We will take the vehicles and curve around the base we just left. After that we will head to the lab which is 20 miles away from Objective Alpha. Everyone clear?" Everyone nods, and even Kevin responds, loaded up in fatigues.

_________________OMG THANK YOU LINDSEY YAY YAY YAY

Last edited by Nephill on Sat Jul 17, 2010 7:22 am; edited 1 time in total

It took Mila a few moments to give up on wondering what Kevin meant. Maybe he was just messing with her. Then again, he didn't seem like that type of person, so he must have meant something by what he'd said. Either way, she needed to get ready if she was going to head back out into the chaos of the world beyond.

Sifting through the armory, she found an old Vietnam-era flak jacket hidden beneath the newer supplies and pulled it over her donated cotton shirt. It wasn't as bullet-resistant as the current ballistic vests, but she wasn't very strong, and it was much lighter than the typical infantry Kevlar. The chances of friendly fire, wreaker fire, and plain explosions were far too high for her to ignore the possibility. This time she planned on being prepared.

Deciding on a weapon was another matter. Although she'd fired a few different rifles over the course of the past two days, the kickback was awful every time and she knew it was dangerous if she didn't learn to control that. Still, she'd known enough from the get-go to realize the importance of bracing the stock against her shoulder, so one of the standard rifles would be okay as long as she wasn't having to hold it up for long periods of time.

Although the XM8 was appealing to look at, almost something she'd envision to be pulled straight out of a sci-fi film, the M16A4 was much more tried and true. Not only that, but as she picked it up, she noticed it weighed about the same as a small computer or gaming system. Goodness knew how often she'd toted one or the other around from place to place.

Checking the safety and ammo supply, she slung the weapon and climbed into a truck beside Sam and Mike, across from Matt and the other soldiers. She felt a bit odd, a civilian divide visibly cutting between her and the trained fighters. They all seemed so cocky and self-assured. She was just hoping to remember to watch her ammunition levels while in the field.

Jason leans against the wall behind the rest of his men, his SCAR-H Assault Rifle in his right hand, silenced M9 at his hip. The marines are hyped; Jason laughs at an occasional joke from one of them, but he doesn't say a word. When the Delta Force Lieutenant calls their attention they quickly quiet down.

The Marines pile into a truck with a few civilians. Jason recognized some of them from the lab. The girl, Mila, looked up at him Jason put up a small wave. Two other civilians sat next to her, and the infected one almost next to him. While the Marines talked amongst themselves, Jason decided to break the ice. He couldn't stand awkward silence. Pulling out his trusty whiskey canister, he takes a sip, deciding to introduce himself the way he usually did.

"Here," Jason says, handing the canister to the young man in the skull cap. "Try it. It'll probably suppress some of those nerves."

Jason glances at the one whom he overheard telling of his experiences with pipe bombs. He wasn't sure how welcome alcohol was among their group, but if at least two of them seemed to open to the idea of marijuana, he figured it shouldn't a problem.

Matt piles in next to a few Marines and the civvies with a few of his Rangers. Knowles looks at each one. "Alright. We're on a mission. All previous problems with our groups must be ignored. This is do or die. If you don't know how to use a weapon, here's how it works. Safety's here. Flick it off when you shoot. Make sure it's on at the right time. Fire as precise as possible. Spraying never got you anywhere. Reload the mag this way," Knowles says, demonstrating, and rattles on as the trucks begin to move.

The thumbs up from Mila means a lot to Matt and he grins, regaining some confidence. He fingers a C4 charge and messes with the detonation wires.

The trucks leave the cave and begin to thud along the dust plains, moving slower. The trucks have been designed for stealth and move quietly. "Comm silence," Lieutenant Marshall reminds everyone, and the trip is silent except for crumbling sand under tires.

Sam sat with a grimace on his face, holding some non descript rifle which he was pretty sure was capable of blowing a hole in someone if he squeezed the trigger. He understood the basics enough by now to know how to use it and he understood enough to know to fire in controlled bursts. In fact as he looked at the rifle Sam switched it to semi-automatic mode instead, deciding that a spray of bullets were useless against these things.

So, it was with great relief, that Sam took up the young marine's offer of a drink. It was, for Sam, the first time in a month that'd he'd finally be able to get hold of some and it made his face light up like a christmas tree. He took a deep swing, a smile spreading on his face and a satisfied sigh escaping from his lips. "Jesus, it's like the drink of the gods."

Before Sam could thank the man properly chief pain in the arse Knowles called for comm silence, so Sam handed back the hip flask and gave a nod of thanks. With a slight grin on his face Sam took off his glasses and began to clean them. He waited patiently for something to happen.

The rhythmic, nearly uninterrupted melody of the trucks passing sand and stone under tires was like a lullaby to Mila. The sun was just beginning to show its face across the woodlands of Nevada, and yet she probably hadn't slept more than four hours since the morning she'd gotten up to get ready for her last day of work.

That was about two days ago.

Mila never did well with a lack of sleep; it made her irritable and sometimes hostile where she otherwise wouldn't be. She struggled to keep herself awake in the best of conditions, but the constant fleeing had taken a toll on her body. She had dark circles beneath her eyes that really made themselves apparent when the light illuminated her face just right. Tilting her head back, she closed her deep brown eyes and just rested while the somber silence settled around them all. At any moment she expected to be startled awake by an explosion, or a scream, or some other nameless catastrophe.

Instead, she blinked as the trucks stopped. "There's no way we're there already..." she murmured, rubbing her eyes.

Looking around at the other soldiers Mike wasn't entirely sure of what he should be doing. He had already got his gun, the M16 that he got from the crate, and added a silencer to it as well as screwing on a scope. At first Mike would have thought these modifications would be difficult to make but to his surprise it was actually very simple. The silencer screwed on and the scope just required some screws to be tightened and adjustments to the sight so it wasn't crooked. Once that was done and Mike went over to talk to Sam again about pipebombs, the supplies Sarge took note of this and shoved a pack of C4 into Mike's hands. He had to chuckle. "I don't think we need pipebombs when we got this."

Compared to the others in the way of guard, Mike didn't bother to get any. Looking back at on the incident at the hospital and again in the capital he found that even the heavy ballistics armor that the soldiers insisted on wearing did very little in the way of protection against the wreaker's superior strength and tenacity. It had crossed his mind to wear one anyway at the thought of the Spetsnaz but truly he doubted if he would see much of those guys again, but perhaps it was better safe than sorry. Going over to a rack of ballistic vests Mike wasn't sure what he was looking for when he decided to grab one. Finally he settled on a sleek and light weight looking vest labeled under Type III, another one was above it called a Type IV but it looked too bulky for Mike to move around in. Putting it on he didn't look half bad with the black ballistics vest over a black suit. He reminded himself of that one game that he had picked up some time ago called Modern Warfare 2, it was old now but it was still fun. He recalled on one of the levels some guys in business suits donned the armor to go on a killing spree; of course at that thought Mike wasn't too sure he wanted to be comparing himself to them. Moving aside for someone else to grab a vest he wandered over to the truck he and everyone else was getting on. Taking a seat across the rest of them, he situated himself near the back of the truck so he could get a view of what was behind them. He spotted Sam being offered a drink and temptation crept into Mike's mind. He'd love nothing more than a drink but now wasn't the time. While they were out perhaps he might be able to swipe a bottle of whiskey or bourbon. For now though it was best not to have his senses dulled by drinking.

Mike merely looked away and kept to himself again. He should have taken the time to sleep or get some rest but strange enough he was in that state of mind where he was so tired he felt completely awake. No doubt given the chance he would collapse into a coma of sleep but sitting there he was as wide awake as anyone else, maybe even more so. He did lose track of time lost in his own state of mind and when the truck stopped unexpectedly, Mike wasn't sure what was going on. Looking around he heard Mila wake up. Looking back she had to admit she was right, the ride was pretty short. "You're right, why'd we stop?" Mike wondered allowed. He made a move to get up and get out of the truck to see what was going on...

As Matt sits, he begins to recover from his ordeal considerably and by the time the trucks stop seems normal. His nose wrinkles a bit at the smell of the soldiers. Many haven't changed, and none have showered. The smell of sweat, fear, adrenaline, and even urine is very evident in the truck. It almost felt like a deep deployment mission in Afghanistan where one fought with his unit 24/7 for days, cut off from Command. Several men try to grab a few minutes of sleep, and most look just tired, exhausted, and frightened.

As the trucks lurch to a stop, they can hear Knowles arguing over the radio. "Alright. Everyone out. It appears we're too close to the base to approach by vehicle. We're moving out by foot. Half a mile walk. When we need to be extracted, the drivers will bring the trucks in. Alright, move em out." Troops begin exiting the other vehicles reluctantly, and after the groups ready, the small coalition of soldiers spread out and begin moving over the Nevada wastelands. Everything is silent except for clinking of weapons and other equipment, and Lieutenant Marshall barks over the radio for weapons to be ready and nightvision goggles donned.

Matt pulls his nightvision goggles over his eyes, pouring green over the landscape. Light reflects off of the metal of weapons and he can see some animals scurrying in the sand, oblivious to the apocalypse occurring around them.

....It wasn't until Lauren stepped back and opened the door allowing the light from the house to spill outside that she noticed something else... the girl had a gun. Her feet suddenly felt as if they were cemented to the floor. She couldn't move, her brown eyes just remained glued to the pistol. Her features shifted displaying a mix of fear and mistrust while her heart pounded in her chest. It was times like this when she reverted to the best counter she had for more trying circumstances, sarcasm. "Let me guess, you're running from aliens or men in black suits?"

Cris looked at the woman who had answered the door, just thanking the powers that be that she had a normal skin tone and wasn't attempting to gnaw her face off on sight. She had seen a few horror movies in her day, and knew that nine times out of ten the blonde girl without much character development didn't make it to the end of the movie.

"You're joking, right?" Cris replied, raising one perfectly arched eyebrow. "If those things are aliens then a lot of people are going to be sorely disappointed." She glanced behind her quickly, making sure there was nothing about ready to jump out of the dark at them, before turning back around to face the woman. "Look, my name is Crystal Tiegs. Maybe you've heard of me, maybe not, not the point. Can I come in? Please?" She assumed the lady was one of those crazy people who planned for the zombie apocalypse and had headed to her fortress the moment she realized the world was going to hell. Hopefully she wasn't a selfish crazy or Cris was going to find herself screwed.

When she noticed the woman's gaze was firmly planted on the gun she added, "Don't worry, the safety's on." And by that she meant she had accidentally emptied it of ammo while attempting to figure out how to put the safety on. She didn't want to admit it though, and it was still all tucked away on her jacket pocket.

Jason smiled when the young civilian took his offer, taking his canister back after the civilian had his fill. This one really did need it, as Jason opened his mouth to ask the civilian's name when Knowles asks for comm silence. The civilian gave him a nod of gratitude, Jason chuckled, he always thought he was born with an expendable liver. Jason looked passed the civilians for a moment, it was dark out he could catch the sight of...nothing it was a desert, weeds dust only difference was now they had to deal with Wreakers. They were stuck in a god forsaken desert, no civilization every one was simply hoping they could keep their sanity.

The civilians seem alarmed as the truck comes to a halt, Knowles soon explains everything. Jason and the rest leave the truck, the Marines fall in they then move forward. Jason puts on his nightvision goggles, raising his SCAR-H rifle moving through Wreaker territory. Jason looks to the left seeing the civilians next to the Rangers, some of them awkwardly hold a rifle the infected ranger stays close to the girl. Jason is vigilant despite the alchohol in his system, then again, when was not in his system? Animals scurry around, a small wind blows toward them it stops, the air felt dry an at night the dust blew through air finding its way to Jason's face. The jingle of equipment was the only noise emitting from the group, all other noise was foreign.

Jason begins to feel an uneasy, as he began to make out the airfield he hear could the distant shriek of a Wreaker. Jason decides to focus on the objective, they needed the vehicles. Jason did, however, enjoy some of the isolation, it was good too finally have the absence of the mainstream media which only wasted his time. No more hypocritical politics, no more celebrity scandals, now there were fewer pains in the ass unfortunately those were extremely deadly. The reality of it was that the world was always at hell, the only difference was that they were now forced to actually do something about it.

As they began to approach the airfield, Jason truly began to feel the danger of their situation.

When she noticed the woman's gaze was firmly planted on the gun she added, "Don't worry, the safety's on." And by that she meant she had accidentally emptied it of ammo while attempting to figure out how to put the safety on. She didn't want to admit it though, and it was still all tucked away on her jacket pocket.

Lauren was now completely confused. As she glanced back towards the girl standing in her doorway, that was completely clear. Not aliens or government men that left the chupacabra and it was a little too far north for that sort of insanity. Of course she was joking but the girl still seemed entirely serious which wasn't uncommon with UFO spotting types exactly but there was something different about this kind of serious which she couldn't quite put her finger on. It however wasn't enough to keep her from grimacing at the mention of the gun's safety being on. Just knowing the girl had a weapon was enough to make her want to slam the door in her face and pray she went away. Paranoid people with guns were never a good thing.

But there weren't any vehicles which she could spot, and she wasn't the type to just shut the door in someone's face and leave them to die in the middle of the desert especially when they'd probably spend the next several days pounding on her door or actually use the gun to shoot her. Lauren sighed as she stepped back and signaled for the girl to enter her temporary and humble abode. "You can come in. Just please set that pistol on the counter and I'd like to know why on earth you're out here."

If there was some new trend encouraging teenagers to go wandering out in the desert with pistols, she wanted a fair warning so she could promptly move. Of course this also meant she'd likely have a long drive back into Rachel tomorrow to drop the girl off back in civilization... well if you could call the small alien obsessed town civilization.

To say the house was modest would be an understatement. The meager kitchen only had the most essential appliances all of which looked as if they could be ancient short of the refrigerator that Lauren had insisted on upgrading to something more energy efficient along with installing a proper solar panel grid a short ways off to provide power instead of the old noisy generator. The kitchen cabinets looked as if they were from the sixties as did most of the other furnishing in the house short of the ergonomic desk chair. The space was open, no walls separated the kitchen and the small two person table from the small living room with the stationary bike, chair, desk, and a sizable fan from the bedroom. The only exception were a few closed doors which led to a bathroom, a closet, and the kitchen pantry. A grand total of two ceiling lights were all that was there to illuminate the house short of the battery powered desk lamp. It was almost enough to make most studio apartments seem luxurious.

Cris was very quickly becoming the confused one herself. Why was this woman acting like she didn't know anything? She stepped inside, nodding her head towards the woman in thanks. The place wasn't exactly what she would call home, but it did work for some shelter. She did as she was asked and set the gun on the counter, sheepishly putting the clip-ammo-whatever it was called thing next to it. Then she turned around and leaned against it, crossing her arms and shivering slightly. She couldn't help it. The image of someone blowing their brains out right in front of you is not something you easily forget. Still, she had to get her head together.

"So, I was performing in Las Vegas when everything went to hell. I got flown out by helicopter, my mom's the... was the paranoid type. Anyway, the pilot was apparently infected, so we had to land before we got to wherever it was he had been ordered to take me. So, I'm assuming we didn't cross states yet, but I'm not really sure where I am. I'm assuming though you have a plan for this sort of thing, since you're here and all Ms...?" she trailed off, waiting for a name. She knew she spoke kind of quickly but the woman didn't seem to be the slow kind.

Soon the group approaches the airfield, and they can see huge aircraft parked in the tarmac and more parked in hangers. Barbed wire fences with guard towers surround the airfield. "This is Marshall. Snipers in position. Infantry, stand by." Delta Force snipers calmly set up their rifles on the ridge and look down their scopes while whispers run through the group for everyone to conceal themselves behind the ridge, which is elevated about twenty feet up and slopes down into flat ground where the airfield is. The ridge runs along the left side of the field, but the land is completely flat to the right.

Meanwhile, they can see Russians speaking in low turns while walking amongst the aircraft, while others man the guard towers. A small team seems to be inventoring the aircraft.

Those close to the snipers can hear them chattering on a different radio bandwith then the general one. "Alright. Here's the deal. Snipers count about twenty hostiles. My snipers will take those out that they can, and some of my men will wack down those barbed wire fenceposts. Follow my men in, the fields are mined. Rangers, you have the task of securing the AC-130 down there," Marshall orders. Matt stares down through his binoculars and spies the huge gunship, seemingly just finishing modifications, parked in a hangar. "I want you to make sure that that hangar and the choppers near it are secure." Next to the AC-130 there are a few helicopters, including Little Birds, Apaches, Blackhawks, and Cobras. "Marines, you are to secure the fighter aircraft down there." He indicates a small field off to the side where there are F-22s, F-18/As, and F-16s alongside a few A-10s and Harriers.

There is a sudden explosion and the snipers tighten their trigger fingers, but they can see the Russians burning a pile of something with gasoline. "Ah. That explains why these aircraft never took off," Marshall says. Matt's insides turn cold as he sees something in the flames still moving. Wreakers. It would make sense an epidemic might have occurred first in Area 51. Fitting, almost.

There are silenced shots, then guards in the towers jerk and collapse, and blood sprays into the air. Guards on the ground suffer the same fate, some going down quietly with half a head and others screaming. "Go go!" Knowles shouts. "Rangers lead the way!" He charges down the hill with Matt, Prelowski, and the other Rangers in tow, only Delta Force in front of them. The Delta Force men throw C4 charges and blow them, knocking apart an elaborate gate. They lead the way through a small area, shouting not to leave it lest they get blown up by landmines.

The Russians in the airfield begin returning fire at the snipers, and then see everyone else and open fire in full. Delta Force opens fire, though the radio chatters with orders not to use explosives until necessary. Two Delta Force operators go down, one wounded, one dead. Matt charges past Knowles towards the hanger, firing with his M416. Knowles grunts, taking a bullet to the thigh, and starts running erratically. Suddenly, a small group of Russians pop out of the hanger, taking cover behind a few crates. Matt dives for cover as rounds quick up dirt around him. Then, an explosion blows apart a fuel truck, shredding the enemy with shrapnel. Matt feels the hot hair scorch his face and then he's up again, all instinct, and dashes for the hanger and pantingly covers the rest of his men and the civilians. The fight winds down all around them, and Matt kneels next to Knowles, who's face is white with pain. Matt checks the wound, which is bloody, but Matt can see an exit wound and slaps on a pressure bandage. "Flesh wound."

OOC: Short fight, because I don't want too much military stuff, especially for this part. This is basically a part for the military to capture some vehicles and destroy what they can't take.

"So, I was performing in Las Vegas when everything went to hell. I got flown out by helicopter, my mom's the... was the paranoid type. Anyway, the pilot was apparently infected, so we had to land before we got to wherever it was he had been ordered to take me. So, I'm assuming we didn't cross states yet, but I'm not really sure where I am. I'm assuming though you have a plan for this sort of thing, since you're here and all Ms...?" she trailed off, waiting for a name. She knew she spoke kind of quickly but the woman didn't seem to be the slow kind.

Lauren closed the door and promptly locked again before moving back towards her desk. Her brown eyes shifted from the gun to the girl whose name she reminded herself was Crystal, it would be rude to forget her name so quickly afterall. She flipped her notebook shut before folding her arms across her chest and listening, she still didn't exactly care to sit down while there was a stranger talking nonsense in her house.

Las Vegas... helicopter... infected... she supposed the whole thing about Las Vegas and the helicopter weren't overly odd. It was the way the girl said infected that caused her to raise an eyebrow.

"Sorry, I'm afraid I'm forgotten my manners, tends to happen when strangers show up suddenly with guns in the middle of the desert. But I'm Lauren Miller." Her last name slipped out on reflex. A few years of book tours and similar nonsense where formality was so prominent on top of her publisher insisting that her first name was so common that she needed to always use both for branding purposes did that to a person. "You're still in Nevada. Rachel would be the closest town. It's a little place full of alien fanatics given its proximity to Area 51."

There was a pause as Lauren shot a glance towards her cellphone still sitting on the table with the battery and its back beside it. "Uh, what was that again about infection and plans? I'm afraid I'm a little out of touch..."

There was a pause as Lauren shot a glance towards her cellphone still sitting on the table with the battery and its back beside it. "Uh, what was that again about infection and plans? I'm afraid I'm a little out of touch..."

Cris’s eyes went wide and her hand went to her mouth. She didn’t know? She really, truly didn’t know? Her mind went back to the few episodes of Law and Order she had watched during her very rare off days, and the detectives who had to bring the news to the dead person’s family. Only, this wasn’t just one victim, this was practically the entire world. The entire country, at least. What a crappy position to end up in.

“Um… you might want to sit down…” Cris offered, pausing to let her if she so chose. “Well, I don’t know how long you’ve been out here, but people have been getting sick lately, some type of flu or something, I’m not really sure…” Her brain was scrambling to come up with as gentle and plausible explanation as possible. She couldn’t even deal with some random lady breaking down on her. “But uh, a lot of people got it. Like, a lot. And then, a few days ago… something happened. I don’t really know how to explain it. But the people who were infected mutated or something. They died, really. Their brains died. But, their bodies didn’t. Do you get what I’m saying?” She sighed, not sure if she was getting the message across. “The people who got infected started attacking all the people who haven’t. And the numbers of the people who haven’t are… well, they’re very few now.”

She didn’t want to say, “Your entire family is probably dead, as are all of your friends and probably anyone you’ve ever known.” But, it was pretty much the truth. Everything was gone.

One minute Mila was trekking across the Nevada expanse wondering what the hell she was doing, and the next minute she was hiding behind a small solid portion of an airfield's fencing, still wondering what the hell she was doing. Gunshots flew by to her left, some impacting on the ground or the chainlink, some whizzing past into the dawn, and others thudding into the bodies of people in her group. She cringed as she watched one of the Deltas go down, a shot ripping through one side of his neck and out the other. Another Delta fell beside him, but was still moving, clutching at his arm and trying to get back onto his feet.

Suddenly Matthew beckoned to those who hadn't charged in, and she shook her head, fearful of crossing the divide. Still, he was risking dying a quicker death than by the Wreaker virus by holding off the remaining Russians. It was now or never, and she didn't care to be stranded behind.

Closing her eyes, she sprinted the rest of the way to the hangar, struggling to keep from dropping her weapon as she ran. Arriving unscathed, she reopened her eyes to squint just enough to see that she was in relative safety, then went and leaned on a wall in order to catch her breath. Her leg had gone back to throbbing now that she'd forced the injured muscle and flesh to do extra work.

Once recovered, she turned and surveyed the others, looking through faces to judge how many had made it.

AJ almost grunted toward the military man when he made the civies comment during the fire fight. Dividing pepole between military and civilians was what you did when there was still a society or civilization. Now they were all just survivors trying to make their way. Course that didn't change the notion in AJ to just sort of keep his head down and his mouth shut as the hiss and snap of shots were made. But besides surviving AJ had something else in mind.

Keeping his eyes constantly moving and his head on a swivel as he looked for some sort of ground transportation. Chilling things out in underground bunker was just not on his agenda while he still had a chance to change things and to do that he needed to get some wheels. Keeping a firm grip on his G36 and making sure to be ready for anything AJ just made sure to keep on edge in case something new sprang up against them.

Several Secret Service agents and soldiers begin to climb into the aircraft cockpits, while some men load supplies and munitions into the aircraft, and the AC-130 is the first to leave. Behind it fly two F-22s and two F-18s, then assorted Blackhawks, Apaches, and two A-10s and one Harrier. The rest Delta Force places explosives near, and after everyone is clear, blow what aircraft and munitions they don't take to pieces. They are then picked up by the trucks and begin moving away from the smoking airfield, and enjoy a few moments of peace.....

*******

The small, elitist horde moves silently. Made up of Bruisers, Screamers, Jumpers, Scouts, and Stalkers. The Stalkers, the most intelligent out of the horde, and most gifted, latch onto the distinct sense of prey. Two dash off from the main horde. The rest are able to spy the moving truck convoy, no matter how muffled the engines are. They dash forward, the Racers charging ahead.

The Racers dash past the lead truck, forcing it to slow, and then a Bruiser charges forward, slamming the lead truck over before smashing into, crushing the front. A Jumper leaps onto the dashboard of another and smashes the windshield, slashing a driver across the face. The Screamers begin their mindcrushing shriek, and those reacting are slammed into shock and pain, making easy prey to be bitten, scratched, mauled, or eaten.

Matt feels the pain, but it is distant. He sees his comrades go down in pain while trying to exit the truck. He spies other men being set upon by Wreakers and feels rage. A Bruiser runs towards him and he fires his XM8, the rounds slamming into the Bruiser's upper torso. It slows, and Matt leaps onto it, slamming his knife and twisting, decapitating the Wreaker's head. He drops off the paralyzed body and blows the head into chunks before twisting, blowing a Screamer's head off and providing a reprieve and a chance for earbuds to be donned in the immediate area. Matt doesn't feel the need for the earbuds. It was almost as if he was....immune.

Then he spies a man wearing shreds of fatigues, red eyes full of cunning, staring at Mila. Matt's gut clenches and protectiveness floods him. He dashes over to Mila yelling for her to get up and takes the Wreaker to the chest and goes down, feeling the Wreaker's jaws slice into his shoulder. He screams and knifes the Stalker in the face and twists, feeling bone cracking. He punches the Wreaker off of him and brings his rifle around only to get pummeled by another Stalker from behind. His shoulder pops out of the joint and he hears something in his arm snap and he screams again before slamming into the dirt, feeling pain rushing from his bite wound. No no no no no.... "No...." he whimpers quietly, all the fight gone from him as one Stalker turns to Mila, while the other squats next to Matt almost protectively before biting him again in the neck, leaving him choking up blood while the Stalker squats next to him, arms out to protect his prey as the virus spreads through Matt's veins.

Mila's truck was turned over, having been plowed into with the force of a head-on traffic collision, sending it flying nose over rear onto its hood. The driver wasn't moving, his head cocked at a weird angle. Panicking, she unclasped her seatbelt and tried to scramble for one of the now shattered windows. She could hear the Bruiser outside snuffling about, and knew it was probably only a matter of seconds before he'd try to pry open the truck like a can of wreaker food. Before she could crawl out of the truck completely, however, the distinctive howl of a Screamer pierced the air and she frantically clutched at her ears from the pain. Last time she'd heard the noise, they had been muffled by several layers of concrete building floors and she'd had earplugs in by the time they'd reached her level.

Now this one was less than twenty feet away, unhindered by soundproofing. For some reason, through her cringing she could see Matt fighting as if nothing was happening, as if he wasn't affected by the deafening sound. Suddenly, just when she thought she'd start to feel blood between her fingers, the pain receded and the screaming stopped as the Screamer fell to the dust in a heap of useless flesh.

Continuing to crawl, Mila barely got her feet clear of the vehicle before the Bruiser picked it up in both hands and slammed it to the ground a few feet further away, probably dazing everyone still inside. She struggled to her feet then, fumbling for her weapon. As she clicked the safety off and spun around, she saw a figure in soldier's garb being gnawed on by the fiercest looking zombie she'd encountered yet. Its savagely beady eyes were focused only on its meal and on protecting it, snarling whenever any other Wreaker got too close.

Beside it, another ghoul turned away, having been denied its initial meal, and locked eyes with her. Pavlovian drops of saliva formed around its bloody mouth, and she could have almost sworn that it smiled at her. Hunching into a crouch, the beastly thing took off in a dead sprint toward her, its bare feet leaving pock marks in the dirt as it stormed closer and closer.

With a scream, Mila fired her weapon, completely forgetting to brace like she was supposed to. The trail of bullets cut diagonally across the Stalker, hardly slowing its progression as she struggled to keep from smacking herself in the face with her rifle. Mentally chastising herself for being so stupid yet again, she released the trigger and decided to try something else.

"3... 2... NOW" she counted, jumping to one side at the last moment as the Wreaker lunged for her and missed, gathering an armful of Nevada desert instead. Like a wussy matador fleeing from the bull, Mila bolted for the nearest intact truck, hands fiddling for the handle. It was locked.

"Let me in!!" she yelled, pounding a fist on the door, but was confronted with a solitary soldier peeking out from the inside. He looked remorseful, but shook his head in refusal. Watching the only friends he'd had left being torn to shreds, apparently he'd decided to hole up in his armored truck and hope for the best. The bastard.

A flash of pain hit her neural receptors as a claw dug into her back, slicing clean through the manganese plates of the old flak jacket like jello. She gasped as another hand wrapped around her neck, yanking her back until she was facing something out of a nightmare. Jagged teeth filled the grinning mouth of a predator, eyes illuminated with nothing but pure hatred and hunger. She could smell the stench of his stagnant breath, heavy with the musk of death and disease. The scent alone almost made her pass out, but she remained conscious long enough to be thrown back into the side of the truck with enough impact to break bone. Twice the monster did this, for some ungodly reason deciding not to eat of her flesh then and there. It was almost as if he was savoring her pain.

He was playing with his food.

Gasping for air, Mila's vision went bleary around the edges and then finally completely black as she was slammed into the truck a third and final time, her face leaving a smear of blood across the window. Inside, the inexperienced soldier felt his stomach tighten with regret and horror as he pulled himself into the empty driver's seat and sped off, a Racer picking up on his escape and tailing him.

The Stalker, content that his prey had been rendered helpless, began to drag her away from the others so that he might devour in privacy. Mila's boot heels made thin tracks across the ground as she was pulled, an almost human intelligence driving her captor to such Kong-esque tactics.

((Ironically, as I was writing the part about the Screamer, an Avenged Sevenfold song called "Scream" came into my playlist, lol.))